Rouge- A Johnlock Fic
by Penelope Sundrud
Summary: John Watson would not call himself depressed. Others would say different. After an awful mix-up with extra siblings, Sherlock is back, but only in the doctor's dreams. Getting over a death Isn't that easy, especially if the deceased shows up at your front door. Repeatedly. Rated T for language... oops.
1. Chapter 1: Meeting One

John Watson tried. He really did. He tried to get over it- to leave it behind. He tried to store each thought away into a box. He tried to "delete" the thought as Sherlock would say. There it was again. _Sherlock. _John felt the pang of stress it the back of his jaw as he tried to lock away the emotion.  
"Damnit Sherlock." He breathed, lowering his head so that his eyes would rest on his inner wrists. He didn't need this. Not now. Not after he had gone so many days without a breakdown - without a tear. He had just shoved everything about Sherlock into little boxes in his mind. Not letting himself open them.  
He took a long breath, counted to ten, then exhaled shakily. John's eyes reluctantly fluttered back to their work.  
The doctor was sitting in his living room across from his laptop. Staring at a textbox. A _blank _textbox. On a very _blank _blog.  
"What on earth am I suposed to write about?" He wondered out loud. And at that moment, there was a knock onhis door.  
"Oh. Sorry Mrs Hudson!" He called, standing shakily. She had told him not to lock his door after sherlocks death. Afraid he might do something drastic... John rolled his eyes. He would never anything _too _awful... would he?  
Just as John reached the door, it shuddered. _Was she kicking my front door?! _John thought, astonished.  
"Hurry _up_, Jonh! We dont have all day!" A young female voice yelled. John stopped himself from turning the handle. That wasnt Ms. Hudson...  
"John! Open the door before your landlady hears us!" She said, pounding on the door.  
The doctor took a step back, debating whether or not to let her in.  
Then he heard a second voice. A man's this time. And deeper. He couldnt make out the words, but he could tell they were arguing. But that voice... the second one. Was it... no. No. Absolutely not! He would not allow himself to think it. He refused to aknowledge that it was the same barritone voice. But it was... wasn't it? The same voice he had tried to lock away into a box far too small for it, for far too long. With a shaking hand, the doctor turned the doorknob. Just ever so slightly. _To hell with it. _He thought, and opened the door completely. A box toppeled over, spilling its contents, but he was peroccupied by the sight in his hall to notice.  
There, standing in his doorway, was a young girl. In her early twenties no more. Her pale high-jawboned face was topped with brown messy hair forced into a bun. She wore grey leggings, a pink chiffon scarf draped around her shoulders, and wool vest. She grinned, and handed the doctor her luggage.  
"Thanks John!" She said with an american accent, and walked into his apartment. The she stopped and frowned. "You are John, right? John Watson? Will you make me a cup of coffee?"  
He stared blankly at her for a second, then opened his mouth. "No. I mean yes...! I mean _yes _I am John Watson, and _no _I will not make you a cup of coffee! And ...wait what? Im sorry, but who are you?" All of this was said in the usaul "Johnish" manner. As if straining to be polite as well as annoyed.  
John placed his hand over his eyes while he held his temples. Then he remembered why he opened the bloody door in the first place. Thats right... the voice. _His _voice!  
Just as the girl opened her mouth, John asked, "Is there someone else here with you?" He blinked.  
"An odd question, unless you expect a certain answer, dont you think?" The young girl was grinning again. "But honestly, im not the one who should be-"  
"Isabella! Good god, when I say pack, I dont mean like youre going off to war! Do you even..." A voice called from the stairs. _The _voice. _His _voice. As it grew nearer to the door, the man saw John, and stopped complaining.  
"John!" Sherlock grinned, but it wasnt genuine. This day came too fast, but it needed to happen. "Would you mind helping me with this? She packs like a rodent...John? Are you even listening to me?"  
But John Watson had zoned out a while ago. The floor beneath him felt like it was tilting (Ms. Hudson wouldnt like that.) And his lungs dissapeared completely. Suddenly, the last few seconds soaked in. There was a random girl in his sitting room, and a deadman in his doorway. But not just and old corpse. It was Sherlock! _His _Sherlock! And that, well, it was surprising. In a good or bad way, he couldnt decide yet, but the shock hit him like a bus. And several more boxes toppled over off their shelves, littering his brain with forgotten thoughts.  
"Oh my god." Was all he could say. As well as stare at _him_ of course. Just stare though. Not interact. Interacting meant that Sherlock was still alive. And he couldnt afford to beleive that. Not while he was on the verge of insanity.  
John pinched the bridge of his nose delicately, and let his mind wander. The rush of questions was overwhelming. But the answers came just as quickly, so it was bearable.  
_Who was this girl? _  
Sherlock's girlfriend, obviously. They were very close, thats for sure. And why else would Sherlock, the world's most heartless man, carry her who-knows-how-many bags of luggage up the stairs? The had to be dating. _Dammit. _John felt a pang of jealousy, but refused to ask himself why.  
_What were that doing in my flat?! _  
Sherlock must have come back to collect his things, and they'll stay for a couple days.  
_Where was Sherlock staying for three years? _  
With her? Probably.  
_How did Sherlock survive?_  
Faked his death. Seems like something he would do.  
And the most nagging question finally spilled out.  
_What would happen now?_  
John finally took a breath. It was weak and shaky. "Sher-" He started, but his voice failed him.  
"Yeah... I think I'll get that coffee on my own then..." The girl, Isabella, said and scrambled awkwardly into the kitchen.  
"Sherlock..." John managed to say again. "Are you really alive?"  
The detective gave him a guilty look. "I am John. And I know I shouldn't be, because I put you though this... And for that, I'm truly sorry. I really am. So please-"  
His apologies were cut off when John's fist connected with his jaw line.  
"You knew?!" The veteran screamed in a rage. "You watched me mourn for months on end and you did nothing?!"  
There was another punch, but Sherlock sucked up his pride and took what he knew he deserved.  
"I knew you were heartless Sherlock, but I never expected _this!_" John punched him again, tears starting to well up. This time square on the nose. There was blood and a loud crack. Sherlock inhaled sharply, glaring down his face. But the doctor still drew back for another punch with his right hand. This time though, Sherlock caught his fist. "John, please..."  
Again, the doctor punched with his left, but he was weak with emotion. Sherlock caught it again, and still holding both John's fists, pulled his blogger out of his doorway.  
"Please John. Hear me out. I dont apologize much, so you better savor this moment." Sherlock said in his low voice.  
John managed a half-hearted laugh. He felt as if he nearly drowned. And he was tired just so tired. He stepped foreward and rested his forehead on Sherlock's chest. He wouldnt mind that would he? Of course not. He just needed to rest...  
The detective tensed. Then slowly exhaled, and laced his fingers into the doctor's clenched fists. "John... I'm sorry for making you go though all this... I didnt think you would take it so badly...so... im sorry."  
"But _why _Sherlock? Was it really that bad? I know you didnt fake all those cases, and even if you did, you wouldn't throw everything away without thinking... so why?"  
Sherlock took a deep breath "I need to save something important to me." He said, choosing his words carefully. "It was one or the other, and I chose me. At least they thought I did... so now, we are all alive, and I beat Moriarty."  
Even though John wasnt looking, he could hear the arrogance in Sherlocks voice. And without asking, he got the feeling that Sherlock was taking about him.  
The doctor sighed, still holding hands with his best friend and his head leaning on his chest. It had been three years since that day. And after three years, he could finally breathe.  
"John?" Sherlock said abruptly.  
"Hmm?"  
"My nose..."  
"What...? Oh god Sherlock...! Sorry! But you couldnt have said so sooner?" John let go of one hand and reached into his jacket pocket for a tissue. The doctor then started dabbing it sherlocks face, a worried crease across his own.  
"No its fine. Its the least I deserve." Sherlock muttered, his eyes not leaving John's. (Which was not easy, considering they were nearly three inches apart.)  
John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's when his hand was squeezed.  
"Can I kiss you John? " Sherlock asked, his eyes slightly squinted looking for a reaction.  
John simply went red. "I... um... Sherlock... yes...I mean no...uh- wait... what happened to not being gay?"  
"Oh good god John." Sherlock rested his free hand on the side of John's neck, while rolling his eyes. "Yes or no?"  
"...Yes." The doctor gave in, unable to think of a witty response.  
Sherlock started to bend over, but John stopped him. "Sherlock.. wait."  
"What is it this time John?" Sherlock asked, obviously annoyed.  
"That girl... Elizabeth..."  
"Isabella."  
"Sorry. What about her?"  
"What about her?"  
"Arent you two... you know... a couple?" John leaned out of Sherlock's arms to look him in the eye.  
"John stop worrying. Shes my sister." The detective said annoyed.  
"Oh thank god..." John muttered into Sherlock's arm.  
" Good lord, John, just look at me." Sherlock said, sounding exasperated.  
"What?"  
And Sherlock kissed him. Right there in the doorway of their flat. And all the boxes inside John's head began to empty themselves into his thoughts. All the memories that had haunted him for so long. He held Sherlock tighter, and for some reason he was crying, but he couldnt remember when that started. And then Sherlock was holding him, letting him know that he was back and there was no need to cry now. And they held eachother as violent sobs wracked though John's body. They stayed this way for a couple minutes until John sniffed and pulled away, giving Sherlock a sad smile.  
"What?" Sherlock asked.  
"Nothing. It's just..." John gave a hollow laugh. "It's just that... well, I've missed you, Sherlock."  
The detective blinked.  
John looked at him expectedly.  
"What?" Sherlock asked again.  
The doctor untangled himself from his friend's arms. "Its just, normal people would say 'I missed you too,' or 'im sorry.'"  
"John, you're forgetting... I'm not normal." Sherlock said, taking John's hand again. "And don't you think for a second that I didnt miss you. Not one day went by without me thinking about how much I wanted to see you again." There was a pause as they stared at each other.  
"Alright. "John gave a curt nod, then gently pulled Sherlock into his flat by the hand.  
"Plus John, you _know _I'm not good with all this emotional stuff. I just say what I mean. Its easier. " Sherlock scrambled to explain himself.  
"Of course." John said absent-mindedly. "Would you like a mug of tea?"  
"Only if you make it for me."  
John paused. "No."  
"Fine. Pass me a cigarette."  
"But you were doing so well! Dont tell me you gave in." John looked up from preparing the two cups of tea.  
"John, I only stopped smoking as a courtesy to you. And now I need one. Please."  
"No."  
"John!"  
"Im already making you tea! And anyways, I got rid of all your cigarettes around the flat." John said matter of factly.  
"WHAT?!" Sherlock roared, diving towards the desk. He threw open every droor and searched through the two cabinets. When he couldn't find what he was looking for, he looked to John wildly.  
"Here." John offered him a mug. "You'll feel better."  
"No! Its not stong enough! JOHN! Please. Please love. Please sweetheart. Where are they? Please tell me." Sherlock had crawled over to where John was standing and wrapped his arms around his middle, sill on his knees, and looking up pleadingly. John Watson was a tomato.  
"Sh-Sherlock... stop it!"  
"Don't pretend you aren't enjoying this John. I know you are."  
The doctor turned even redder, if possible.  
"There are some in the bookcase. _Lies My Teacher Told Me_, by James Lowen. " John couldn't stop himself from saying.  
"You are a saint." Sherlock popped up and flew to the bookshelf, quicly pulling out a pack of cigarettes.  
John sipped his tea, calming his racing heartbeat. He had never thought of Sherlock in this way. Not until today at least. Perhaps the feelings were building up the entire time. Perhaps they were always there. Or, perhaps they didn't exist at all.  
"Sherlock! Stop smoking!" Another voice called. It was Isabella, Sherlock's sister. "Oh, and get me my phone." She trotted down the stairs, wearing sweatpants and an old sports shirt. "Its on the table." She grounded her self on one hip, and pointed to the coffee table with John's laptop on it.  
The detective took a savored, well needed puff from his cigarette. "Ask John." He finally said.  
Isabella looked to the doctor, who was in mid sip.  
"What? Ah-no. This is shallow. Get it yourself." He said, trying not to sound annoyed.  
"You know whats shallow?" She asked, walking to the table and getting the phone herself. "You two being a couple after meeting for like, ten minutes." She finished, waving her phone in John's face.  
They both blushed.  
"Eight of which, was making out." She added, leaving the flat. "Im going jogging. Ill be back soon."  
After a few moments of awkward silence, John finally said "What's _making out _?"  
"Snogging. Shes American." Sherlock answered, breathing out.  
"Is that where you've been hiding then? In America?"  
"Please don't call it hiding, John." He said absentmindely  
"Thats what it was, wasn't it?" John had a tint of anger in his voice.  
"Dont do this, Mr. Watson." Sherlock's voice was a thunderstorm about to let loose.  
"Why Sherlock? Why not?" He had put down the cup, then threw his hands in the air. "I deserve answers, dont I?"  
The detective stared for a minute, then hung his head. "I was staying with Isabella in America. No one knew me there, so I was safe."  
"Thank you. See? Thats a good answer!" John cried.  
"John."  
"You dissapear of the face of the earth for three years, Sherlock! This is the least I expect!"  
"John."  
"Plus, you didnt even give me a hint of what was going to happen! You could have told me Sherlock!"  
"John, listen."  
"No! You listen!" The doctor was in a rage now. He thought it was over, but it wasnt. He felt naive. How could he have thought that three years of anger and hate would dissapear with just an embrace? "Sherlock do you know how awful it feels to see your best friend die?" He made air quotes. "It can drive you insane. I was put on suicide watch, Sherlock. And just when I thought it was over, when I thought the pain would end, you're back from the dead! Maybe it would have been easier if you really did jump!"  
Sherlock stopped trying to he didn't try to make a snide comment back, or try to explain himself. He just stared, blankly-unseeing.  
The doctor blinked, just realizing what he said. "No...no. No, Sherlock. Oh god. I-I didn't mean that I want you dead... Never. I'm sorry." He placed his hand over his eyes. "I truly didnt mean it."  
"Really, John? Because I think you've made it very clear what you mean. " Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm.  
"No. I havent made it clear. Im sorry. Really. Please."  
"Good. Now can I explain myself?"  
"Yes. Sorry. I am so, so sorry..."  
"I heard you the first three times, John." He put out his cigarette and laid down on the couch, hands tucked under his chin. "John. Come sit." He bent his knees so there was room for his blogger.  
"No thank you... Um, I'm fine." He coughed awkwardly, putting away his mug of tea.  
"John. Come sit. I want you to."  
John obliged, and shelock stretched his legs onto his lap. The doctor blushed.  
"I was being threatened. By Moriarty. He had snipers on Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, and you."  
"What...? But you hate Lestrade."  
Sherlock laughed a hollow laugh."Thats what I thought too, until his life was threatened."  
John nodded, but Sherlock was oblivious.  
"But, he said... He said either I jump, letting the world know I was a fake, and unstable one at that, or you died."  
There was silence.  
"What?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes.  
"I didnt speak..."  
"But your pulse changed. So, what?"  
John sighed, absentmindely rubbing his thumb against Sherlock's leg. "Your worst fear was if people were to see you as weak or stupid. But thats exactly what you ensured..."  
"You're wrong." His eyes were closed again.  
"Excuse me?"  
"Thats not my worst fear."  
There was silence again.  
"Come on John. Use your brain. As unused as it may be."  
There's the Sherlock John knew.  
"You didnt want to loose the few friends you have?" The doctor said tentatively.  
"I didnt want to loose _you_, John."  
Neither of them spoke. Sherlock stared at John, and John stared at Sherlock's feet.  
"I didn't ... I didn't think you cared." John muttered blushing.  
The detective sat up quickly, placing himself side by side with his friend. "John, did you ever think of what I told you when we were working our first case? I asked you, if you knew you were going to die, what would be your last words?"  
There was a pause. As if John was trying to remember, but how could he forget? How could anyone forget the last words of their best friend?  
"Good bye, John." The doctor swallowed.  
"Yes." Sherlock's warm breath tickled his ear.  
John felt his tear ducts swell. _No. _He thought. _No, he cannot see me cry again._ In a desperate effort to hide his tears, he buried his face into Sherlock's shirt, pulling him closer.  
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I- I'm so, sorry." He wrapped his arms around his friend's waist.  
"You did nothing wrong, John." Sherlock awkwardly stroked the back of John's kneck. "Don't apologize. Its annoying."  
"Oh- right. Sorry." The doctor paused. "Dammit..."  
They both exhaled laughs as Sherlock stretched back down.  
"But seriously... I didnt mean what I said... Now that youre back, I dont think I would survive without you." John muttered.  
"Please dont be mad at me." Sherlock said suddenly.  
"I'm not mad."  
"Yes you are."  
"Not anymore." John looked down.  
"Get me another cigarette then."  
John stood. "Nice try." He began to walk to the kitchen, but Sherlock grabbed his hand.  
"John?"  
He blinked, looking down at his friend.  
"Yes?"  
"I missed you too."  
The doctor stared intently for a second, grapsed Sherlock's hand gently, then sat on the ground, leaning against the couch. He sighed calmly, placing the taller man's cool hand against his face.  
"You have a fever." Sherlock immediately said.  
"No..." He paused. "I'm just tired."  
"Then sleep."  
"You too."  
"Okay."

~:+:~

Thank you for reading, and please review telling me how I did. I would love suggestions and critiques from you readers. Oh, and more on Isabella in future chapters, you'll see, it gets interesting. Oh yes, and please, please, _please_ let me know how I'm doing with thier characters and their relationship. I tend to get OOC a lot so that would be great. Thanks again for reading!

YOUR LOVING AUTHOR-

Penelope Sundrud

PS


	2. Chapter 2: Revising

Outside 221 Baker street, a young girl pulled off her sports shirt and sweatpants to reveal a classy red dress. She undid her bun and let her curly shoulder length hair loose. Stuffing her old clothes in a near by trashcan, she dialed a number on her phone.  
"Anyone there?" She grinned and waited for a response. Then... "Hello, _brother!_"  
There was a pause as the man on the other end spoke.  
"Oh yes, I'm _sure._" She rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you when I get there. Just send a car."  
Pause.  
"I'm on Baker street, and St. Charles."  
Pause.  
"Okay, bye"  
Pause.  
"Okay. Just shut up and send it."  
Pause.  
"Kay, bye."  
The girl sighed and stared at the streets_._ It was so different from New York, but so similar at the same time. Still, life would be easier now that she wasn't a wanted criminal, but she couldn't loose the feeling that someone would notice her. _No one noticed Sherlock. _She thought. But who cared anyway? Now she would start a new life, as if her curse never existed.  
Soon enough, a black sedan pulled up and a schoffer upened the back door for her.  
"Um...no. I ride shotgut."  
"Excuse me miss?" His accent was thick.  
"It means I'll sit up front." She said opening the door herself.  
"Miss, I dont know if my employer-" he began but was quickly cut off.  
"Well your employer answers to me." She closed the door with a very annoyed slam.  
Ten minutes later, Mycroft Holmes was startled out of his work by a loud banging on the heavy double doors of his office.  
"What is with you Britts and locking your doors?" A familiar voice shouted. Mycroft couldnt help but smirk. He hadn't seen his sister since she left for America nine years ago, but she hadn't changed; still as noisy as ever.  
He had risen from his desk and strode over to open the door for his visitor, but was flooded with anxious babbling immediately.  
"I tried to stop her sir! I really did!" The butler saud in a rapid fire way. "She refused to leave, and even made up some ridiculous tale of being family of yours. So sorry sir! I will escort-"  
"Just, stop... Just stop." Isabella rolled her eyes. "Go lie down, or something." She gave mycroft a 'Really? You hired this guy?' Look as the butler wandered off confuzed.  
"Well," Mycroft began, "I was planning to say 'its good to see you again', but it seems you're causing havoc already."  
"You know its good to see me. It always is." The younger girl grinned, as she shook his hand awkwardly. "Don't be such a prude, Mycroft. And Mummy wonders why you aren't married." Isabella joked, inviting herself in.  
Mycroft stared. She was so foward for a Holmes. Or at least she seemed so. He knew better than to beleive her act. Something was wrong, and this would be a hard nut to crack.  
"So..." He began, taking a seat across from her at his desk. "Speaking of awkward relationships, how's the meeting between the two of them? Except it's not actually a meeting, considering they don't actually meet..." Mycroft said them as if referring to two naughty children.  
"Well, you know... not too bad." Isabella's eyes staying focused on her brother's, smiling slightly.  
"Did the plan go smoothly?" He asked, although he knew the answer would be negative. He knew his sister well, and he knew her lies even better.  
"That depends on your point of view."  
Mycroft sighed melodramaticly. "Can you just tell me exactly what happened? "  
The girl shifted in her chair. Just barley; enough for only Mycroft to notice. "Well... I didn't mean for him to see Sherlock... And if Sherlock wasnt shouting up the stairs in the first place, it would have been fine!"  
"John SAW him?" Mycroft said. Almost yelling. Almost.  
"And he punched him. And kissed him."  
"WHAT?" This time he yelled, causing his sister to shrink back into her chair. "Do you know how dangerous this could be?!"  
"Yes, but I can sort it out. I promise. " All the humor in her voice was gone, and her bony hand was reached across the desk in a reassuring way. "I'll fix it. I always do."  
Mycrost sighed again, this time trying to control his thoughts. "You do realize that this puts all of us, mainly John and Sherlock, into a very dangerous situation, involving serial killers, assassins, and Moriarty."  
She bit her lip. "I thought Sherlock took care of all of Moriarty's men."  
"He thought they were only in America. Typical. No, no, no... I've been pulling strings in London, but it will take months, possibly years, for any if us to be even near safe. John cannot know Sherlock is alive." Mycroft was leaning forward, elbows in his desk, thinking. "What are they doing right now? "  
" Sleeping. "  
"Did you see them doing so?"  
"No."  
"Then how do you know? "  
Isabella gave him a sidways look. "Do you doubt me?" As if challenging her brother. "As much as I know you want to, do not forget I am a Holmes. "  
She stood without giving him a chance to collect himself.  
"See ya." She stode over to the door.  
"Do you have a plan, then?" Mycroft had stood as well and was now supporting his weight on his armchair.  
Isabella grinned. "I always have a plan " And she closed the door with a slam.  
On her way through the halls, the young girl pulled out her phone.

4:04-  
Are you truly sleeping?

4:04-  
Yes.  
-SH

4:05-  
No you aren't. We need to talk. New plan.

4:05-  
Meet me at my grave.  
-SH

4:05-  
Lay John on the couch across from his laptop when you leave. Grab my stuff from upstairs. Leave no trace we were there.

4:06-  
Oh. I see you have a plan.  
-SH

4:06-  
As always. Do it. And hurry.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock Holmes stepped out of a cab, and strolled over to a bench in a cemetry, occupied by only one other person.  
"Why the dress?" He asked immediately.  
"No reason. Good day." She said, as he placed himself next to her, rolling her suitcase towards her. He couldn't help but grin. It truly was a good day. He had his John back. And things had changed between them, but for the better of course. So yes, it truly was a good day.  
"What are you thinking? " The detective asked after a while.  
"Twenty-seven seconds. "  
"What? "  
"Twenty-seven seconds till you showed curiosity, Sherlock! You must really love him..." Isabella looked up at him, still in a dazzled faze.  
"Is that a bad thing?" He was hiding his emotions with his mask again.  
The girl sighed. "For me, yes. For you, no." She paused. "I just never thought you would let yourself be hindered by emotions like this."  
Sherlock stiffened, and slowly exhaled. "I finally learn how it feels to be human. Let me enjoy it." He snapped back.  
His sister clicked her tounge. "Sorry, but we can't to that."  
"No?"  
"The plan was for me to break it to him slowly, with you not being too eratic, then we leave, without anyone noticing."  
"So?" Sherlock glared.  
"Don't be stubborn. You know that was the safest way." Isabella accused.  
He shifted his weight so that they were nearly facing each other. "I won't let him get hurt."  
The girl laughed a cold mocking laugh. "See, Sherlock? That is my point. You always said emotions get in the way of what really matters. It's not just John's life at stake here, its all of ours. Wise up."  
He zoned out. She was right. All the morales he beleived in had gone out the window as soon as he saw John today. Was this love? This emptiness that seems to go on forever, but you still couldn't get enough of it? This pain that got worse, the more you try to treat it? If it was, Sherlock hated it. But wanted it none the less. He wanted to fill the hole in his chest, that he never realized was there-until today, of course. But what about the others then? Himself, and his siblings. He couldn't have John, and keep them safe from Moriarty at the same time.  
He swallowed. "You wouldn't have summoned me if you didn't have a plan. What is it?" Sherlock gave his sister a sideways look.  
She smiled gently. "I'm glad you asked. Dreams, Sherlock."  
"Whose?"  
"John's. We disguise this as a dream. He can't know that you're still alive, so we make it seem that every time you see him, its like youre meeting him for the first time in three years, but its a dream. -judging that you obviously do want to see him again."  
Sherlock frowned. Just slightly. "That's cheating."  
"Your point?"  
"Go on..."  
"You stay with him until he falls asleep. Then you fix everything so that its like you were never there."  
"How to explain you though?" Sherlock muttered.  
"You'll see. I have an idea. But you just need to know: He can't know how you really faked your death. Sherlock, listen. Each time you see him, you will need to make up a new story of how you survived. As if its the first time to see him since your fall."  
The detective groaned. "What if we get caught? What if we mess up, and he hates me for it? What if he tells someone, Isabella? You don't get it! Your plan has so many flaws!"  
His sister inhaled sharply, letting her eyes dart over his face, searching desperately for something to use against him. "Its less dangerous than revealing yourself to the public. And tell me, Sherlock, do you have a better plan?" Her voice was steel. Taunting, angry, annoyed steel.  
The siblings had a staring contest. Right there, a silent battle of willpower and stubbornness. Neither of them moved except for well-placed blinks until... Sherlock groaned inwardly and flopped back onto the bench. "Fine...!"  
"Don't be such a jerk. Besides, its only until all of Moriarty's men are gone. And Mycroft is taking care of that."  
"You went to see Mycroft?! That explains the dress! Agh! I don't believe you!" Sherlock complained, refusing to look at his sister.  
She shrugged then stood, preparing her suitcase. "Just find a place to stay. I've rented an apartment for only myself."  
He frowned then decided not to question. There was no point trying to get his sister to explain more than she had to.

John Watson felt amazing. He remembered Sherlock being there with him. He remembered a girl, his sister, punching him, and... and kissing him. Right there in the doorway. He also remembereed falling asleep on the ground, holding Sherlock's hand. So why was he on the couch, and where was Sherlock? His first thought was that he had gone out, then the second was that it must have been a dream. Thats right. It must have been. Sherlock was dead. Dead. Not alive. He couldn't have been in the flat if he was dead. John felt his heart sink, then scolded himself for being silly. Sherlock wouldn't- couldn't have kissed him in the first place. He doesn't have a heart. He is incapable of love. He is a selfish bastard who has feelings for no one but himself. John suddenly realized he was thinking of him in the present tense. He sat up quickly, rubbing his brow. This was annoying. He was angry at a dead man for showing up in his dreams; it had happened before. But this time was different... it was so much more real than the normal nightmares, plus, this dream had another person... his sister. He couldn't just make up such a detailed person in his head. Now John knew it was a dream. Sherlock only had one sibling: Mycroft. Plus, imagine what another Holmes could do. John Watson closed his unused laptop and stood, drawing closer to the window. The sun was just setting, but he looked onto to the streets anyway. There was a man getting into a cab. He was graying slightly, but he was still young, so probably a slightly stressful job. A lawyer judging by his attire.  
John sighed. Sherlock would have already known what law firm he belonged to, and whether he would win or lose his next case.  
The next person he laid eyes on was an older woman, dressed in an apron. How cliché. She was married, and obviously happy with the way her life was now. She had on topaz earing with a matching necklace, so she must be quite well off. Probably from her husband since her hands showed no sign of labor and her wedding ring was tight around her finger. She was just the kind of person Sherlock would call boring and complain about.  
John smiled and moved on to the next pedestrian. This one was getting out of a cab. She was wearing a red dress with sneakers.  
'Teenage slut' he immediately thought and was about to move on, but then he saw her face. There wasn't a smudge of make up, but she was still very beautiful: with pale skin, high cheekbones, and dark shoulder legnth hair. He stopped himself. The doctor's breath caught in his throat, as he remembered where he saw that face before. The girl in his dream... Sherlock's sister! She pulled a big black suitcase from the trunk of the cab, and made her way towards 221.  
John swallowed and launched himself away from the window and out the door. He didn't know what he was doing, and his brain was working so fast he couldn't stop himself. All he knew was that this girl was the key to Sherlock being alive.  
The doctor stumbled down the steps and threw himfelf onto the door, pulling it open in the process. The cool evening air rushed in, but John still stepped outside dispite being barefoot. There she was, walking across baker street, grinning as she looked up at the apartment. But where was Sherlock? Wouldn't he be with her? John ran into the street towards her and clasped her shoulders. "You're Isabella, right? Please tell me I'm right... Where's Sherlock?"  
She gave a confuzed smile, then said "Yes. Yes, thats me... but who's Sherlock?"  
John blinked. His mind which was on overdrive, suddenly stopped. He just needed some tea... "No, no..." He said to the girl. "Of course you don't. So sorry to bother you... I- I just... Nevermind. Good day." The doctor turned around and walked back towards 221. He stepped inside and was about to close the door, when a sneakerd foot placed itself in the doorframe. John's eyebrows crinkled together as he pulled the door open to see the girl's face. "Yes?" He asked.  
She smiled. "It seems this is my stop too."  
"What?"  
"I'm just moving in. The empty flat? 221b, the top apartment? A cousin sent me an ad from the papers."  
John closed his eyes and took a deep, long-needed breath. This was incredibly strange. He might need to get a stronger prescription. "Right." He managed a tight smile. "Well our landlady isnt home now, but I live in the flat below you. I'll just show you in..." He pinched the bridge of his nose and offered to grab her suitcase and started up the stairs.  
"My name's Isabella, by the way. Isabella James. Neurologist and psychologist." She offered her hand.  
John looked down and shook it awkwardly. "John Watson. Medical doctor." He paused as he switched her bag to his other hand. "I'm so sorry about what happened earlier. I... I thought you were someone else from... from somewhere."  
"So how'd you know my name? "  
"... Coincidence I guess."  
"No John, you've seen me before." She said.  
His heart skipped a beat. "Sher-"  
"I was here last week silly! I wouldn't get an apartment if I've never seen it in person." Isabella giggled.  
"Oh..." John's last bit of hope melted. "Right." He smiled politely.  
They slowly got to the second floor and continued up to the next, stopping only so John could switch Isabella's bag to his right hand.  
"I can carry that, you know. You don't have to." The girl offered.  
He grimaced a smile back at her. "I've got it. I've carried heavier than this before."  
Isabella smiled. "Thank you."  
"So you're from America? With... well, I'm sure you've noticed. With the accents and all...?"  
She breathed a laugh. "Yeah. New York actually. Not the city though."  
John nodded visibly, and thought; 'Okay. You can calm down now, John. She has nothing to do with Sherlock. His family is made up of British aristrocrats. She's an American farm girl.'  
"Well. Here we are." John set her bag down in front of her doorway. "Ms. Hudson will come check on you in the morning. Good night." The doctor gave a curt nod of his head and began to leave.  
"Goodnight John. See you around I guess!" Isabella called, shrugging to herself. She pitied him. He was just a shell of his old self, according to Sherlock. And in the state he was now, her brother would have torn him apart, if this was when they first met.  
Sighing slightly, Isabella dragged her suitcase into her new apartment and shut the door.  
The apartment was small, with one bedroom. It was already fully furnished with blue and green accents in the gray rooms. Isabella took her suitcase into her bedroon and began to unpack.  
Downstairs, the doctor let himself into his flat and glided over to his couch. Thats all he did these days. Glide. He didn't care where he was going because he had no reason to go there. He just wanted to sit down, curl up, and fall asleep... Thats all he really did anymore. But he stopped himself. John caught his eyes drifting over to the window desk, where an old violin lay. It was one of the few things of Sherlock's that he didn't move.  
Very slowly, John made his way to the desk, and ran his trembling fingers over the cold wood. No. No way. He wasn't going to cry. John growled jerking his hand away from the instrumemt, suddenly angry. Angry at Sherlock for needing a roommate. For getting him interested in all this detective nonsense. For being so damn perfect at everything. John huffed, stomping back to the couch. He unceremoniously sat, then stretched out to sleep. The doctor fluffed his pillow. He turned onto his other side. He tried counting sheep. Anything to fall back into his dreams and see Sherlock again. After a few idle minutes, John picked himself up to rest in a proper bed. On his way past the kitchen, his hand ghosted over a full bottle of nightmare medication. There was no point taking it now, besides... he was better off without it.  
Very slowly he dragged himself to Sherlock's old room. Sherlock's room because it was the only place he could sleep without being haunted by the war now. Overwhelmed, he eased himself into the bed and burried himself in the comforter, holding a pillow tightly to his chest. And then, John Watson did something he hadn't done in a very long time: he cried.


	3. Chapter 3: A Break

Okay. So this isn't an actual chapter to the story line. Think of it as a filler. Not because your ever so loving author has writer's block, but because her head is flowing with too many ideas. Her as in me.  
Anyway, this has nothing to do with the story, it is just a short little oneshot inspired by a couple I saw at my hotel in California. The main story will continue later on, but this is not it. Okay. Enjoy~

* * *

"John, I refuse."

The doctor gave his friend a condescending look. "There's no point now, Sherlock. We're already off the plane. Besides, I already payed over six-hundred pounds for this trip, so you're staying."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the taxi seat between him and John. "I can have Mycroft pay you back. Just stop the cab. I want to get out." He paused, then addressed the driver. "Stop the car!"

"No!" John half shouted, then gained control of his voice. "No. Keep going please. Sherlock, we're nearly there. You need a break." He pushed his friend back into his seat.

"What I need is a cigarette." Sherlock muttered under his breath. "How did I let you and Lestrade talk me into this? I am perfectly fine! I don't need to go on the stupid trip to god knows where. I swear if I ever have to-"

"Shut up." John said, placing his hand over the detective's. Sherlock tensed, the relaxed as he stretched his hand out flat. John inhaled, then risked a glance to see if Sherlock was looking at him. He was.

"What?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"We're holding hands." John said slowly.

"You just get smarter and smarter dont you?" The sarcasm in his voice was evident.

John gave him a pointed look before pulling his hand away.

There was a moment of silence.

"Which is excellent of course." The detective added. "Pretty soon you could be up to my standards." He looked to his friend for a reaction, but John had averted his gaze out the car window.

Sherlock took the hint. Instead of pestering the man next to him, he pulled out his phone. Rather than texting like he normally would, he dialed a number and put the phone to his ear. John gave him an odd look, then returned to the window.

"Hello!" He said in a voice that was all too bright and cheery. "I'm fine, thank you. Um, yes. This is Mr. John Watson calling." He grinned at his friend across the seat, who's head had whipped around before Sherlock finished his sentence.

"No." John said, on a voice that was completely controlled, but threatening none the less.

Sherlock didn't even flinch, making his grin grow. "Yes, I would like to cancel my reservation for this week." At this point, John tackled him, grabbing for the phone, but Sherlock having the height advantage held the phone out of reach- laughing the entire time.

"Extra cost? Yeah just- ow! John, don't touch me there!"

The doctor gasped in disbelief, "Don't you dare, Sherlock. Don't you bloody dare."

The detective ignored him. "Er- sorry about that, had a bit of a mishap... Yes! Of course I'm John Watson! ... It's a very common name, you know. Yes, as I was saying, just send the bill to Mycroft Holmes. You'll find his current address online; updated weekly. ... Yes im sure! Call and ask him if you must. Okay, thank you!" He hung up, then turned grinning at John.

"You bastard." The doctor said, as if the words tasted foul in his mouth.

Sherlock grinned. "So we can go home now?"

"No."

"John. Please."

The blonde sighed. "Sherlock, it's for your own good. I've seen how hard you've been working. You need to relax, have fun, you know... a vacation!"

"My work is fun! Otherwise I wouldn't be doing it! John, listen. I enjoy my work. I don't need an income, but I still have a job because I want to. Im always on vacation."

John looked at him, acknowledged what hesaid, then continued. "Fine. But I need a vacation. And I'm not leaving you alone in our flat to blow it up, so you're coming with me."

The detective huffed, pulling his legs onto the seat, and curling into a ball. It was a positive gesture.

After nearly ten more minutes of awkward silence, their cab drove up to their hotel, nestled deep in the mountains of Switzerland. Sherlock was the first one out, wrapping his coat tighter around him, while John payed the cabbie.

"Damn it, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how much it will cost to get a room now? What am I saying... of course you don't! Why would it matter to you anyways?" John said annoyed, as he and Sherlock stepped into the hotel.

They both inhaled as they took in the view around them. It was beautiful. Even Sherlock couldn't help but marvel at the glass chandelier suspended above their heads. The room was enormous too, with leather couches set around fireplaces whose chimneys rose to the ceiling. Plaid blankets could be seen everywhere, mostly laid across furniture as an escape from the cold. It had the familiar feel of home.

"Glad you came?" John asked Sherlock with a smirk.

The detective glared.

They both walked up to the front desk, but John was the one who did the talking.

"Hello, welcome to the Grey Wolf Resort! How could I help you today?" The girl behind the counter said cheerfully.

The doctor opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock interrupted. "John, hurry up."

The blonde glared up at his friend. "Yes... I'd like to get one room, preferably on the second floor..." The girl was looking between the two of them as if she was just realizing that the two of them were together.

"What?" John asked her, obviously annoyed.

"One room each or, sharing...?" She asked slowly.

"Just one room." The doctor turned slightly pink, making Sherlock smirk.

The girl behind the counter nodded, typing something up on her computer. "Okay, so one bed, or two? One I would guess."

"Two beds! God! Why does everyone think we're gay? Of course two beds! Hell, why not make it three beds!" John yelled throwing his hands in the air.

Sherlock then gave John a sideways look, raising hid eyebrow as if saying 'Really? Okay, but you'll be missing out on alot...'

John Watson swallowed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "Er... um. One bed would be fine actually..."

The girl managed to cough an 'okay' and handed John the key card.

"And um, who's paying the bill?" She asked.

Sherlock smiled and spoke to the girl for the first time, "Mycroft Holmes. Look him up."

One week later.

The British government was sitting at his desk, just sitting down for a cup of tea. He sighed. It had been a long week for him, full of angry government officials he didnt have time to deal with. His eyes shifted to the pile of mail on his desk. Right. He might as well go through it while he had the time. Besides, it was only his personal mail, so nothing too drastic.

The first was a letter from a cousin long forgotten. He didnt even bother reading it and threw it into his paper shredder.

Next was an advertisement from his tailor, offering a discount on seasonal waistcoats. Mycroft paused before placing the paper aside. He would need that.

His eyes then settled on a bill from a Grey Wolf Resort and he immediately registered the incorrect spelling of 'gray'. As he opened the envelope, he found (much to his surprise) a bill for a collective 426 pounds to a particular John Watson.

He stared at the paper for a moment then simply rolled his eyes, and dialed his schoffer. "Get me Mr. Sherlock Holmes please. Do not abide to his refusal. No exceptions."

* * *

The next chapter of Rouge will be up sometime next week. Iv'e been with family all week so I've been busy. Sorry.

R & R please~~

Your Loving Author,

PS

Penelope Sundrud


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